Dodging Bullets
by obsetress
Summary: AU, Mr. and Mrs. Smith-style crossover. Quinn and Rachel are in a long-term relationship, and each is hiding a big secret from the other. Turns out dishonesty may be food for a marriage after all. Unbeta'd, so any mistake is my bad.
1. Chapter 1

_(There is a click, as if a tape has begun recording.)_

**RACHEL**: Let me be the first to say, Miss Pillsbury, that we, by no means, need to be here right now. We have been together now for _five years_-

**QUINN**: Six.

**RACHEL**: Five, six years. Look, I don't want to inform you that your career choice is at all a superfluous one, Miss Pillsbury-

**EMMA**: Please Rachel, call me Emma.

**RACHEL**: I don't mean to inform you that your career choice is a superfluous one, Miss Pi- Emma, but this is, very simply, a sort of periodical examination for the two of us. My two gay dads still partake in the occasional marriage examination to this day, and their relationship is fit as a metaphorical fiddle. As both Quinn and myself would like to maintain a relationship as strong and enduring as theirs, we find it is only fit to follow in their already well-established footsteps. Just as one must continue with one's rigorous schedule of vocal instruction even after one has graced the Broadway stage-

**QUINN**: You danced onstage at the end of _Hair_.

**EMMA**: Doesn't everyone get to do that?

**QUINN**: Yes.

**RACHEL**: _Just as one must continue with one's rigorous schedule of vocal instruction even after one has graced the Broadway stage_, it is equally pertinent that one must continually work at a relationship, regardless of the length of time its participants have been together.

_(There is a rustling of paper.)_

**QUINN**: Oh, we don't need pamphlets. Thank you.

**EMMA**: Very well then. Let's start at the very beginning, shall we?

**RACHEL**: That sounds like a very good place to start.

_(There is a pause.)_

**RACHEL**: I thought we were going with the musical theater metaphor.

**QUINN**: Can you just let the woman do her job?

**RACHEL**: The woman's name is _Emma_, sweetie.

**EMMA**: _(quickly)_ Okay! Okay, so, on a scale of one to ten, how happy are you as a couple?

**QUINN**: Eight.

**RACHEL**: I'm sorry, Emma, but I'm not sure I understand the question in its entirety. Are we considering ten to be complete euphoria whereas one is emotional devastation? Or is it the other way around?

**EMMA**: Just say whatever comes to mind first, Rachel.

**RACHEL**: Alright. Ready?

**QUINN**: Ready.

**RACHEL AND QUINN**: Eight.

**EMMA**: Okay. How often do you two... You know... Do... It?

_(There is a long pause.)_

**QUINN**: I don't understand the question.

**RACHEL**: Is this intended to be a scale-based question? Such as, you know, your previous "from one-to-ten" query?

**QUINN**: Yeah, and is one not a lot or is one nothing? Because, I mean, technically speaking zero would be nothing. Just... Technically.

**RACHEL**: Precisely, and, as per the ancient Taoist principle of yin and yang, if one isn't defined, how are we supposed to know what ten is?

**QUINN**: I mean, is ten, just, nonstop-

**RACHEL**: Incessant-

**QUINN**: Not even stopping, like-

**RACHEL**: To watch the Tonys?

**EMMA**: It isn't a one-to-ten question, girls. Just answer it naturally. How often do you two do it?

_(There is a longer pause.)_

**EMMA**: What about, oh, this week?

**RACHEL**: When you say "week," do you mean the traditional seven-day week that takes into account the weekend?

**EMMA**: Sure.

_(There is another pause.)_

**EMMA**: Okay, so, let's try something else. Um... Let's talk about how the two of you first met.

**QUINN**: It was in Colombia.

**RACHEL**: Bogota, to be specific. Five years ago.

**QUINN**: Six.

**RACHEL**: Right. Five or six years ago.

* * *

_Five or six years ago..._

Warm sunlight dances lazily on tan shoulders as she leans languidly against the brightly polished bar, one hand wrapped loosely around a shirley temple - alcohol is, after all, a very substantial roadblock to any successful singing career, even if such a career _had_ taken a backseat to her current profession, and therefore must be avoided at all costs - while the other clutches an open, well-worn script. Turtle-patterned Wayfarers betray their wearer though, slipping down the bridge of a very prominent nose, revealing her chocolate-colored gaze is anywhere but Wilde's carefully-worded witticisms: it's everywhere else instead, as if she's expecting - daring - something to go wrong. The well-muscled bartender pouring himself a shot of tequila at the end of the bar catches her glance when she turns it his way, and she quickly pushes her glasses back up her glistening nose, cursing the heat.

The bartender's slow saunter over to her is brought to a sudden halt, though, when police quickly infiltrate the lobby, swarming over it. It reminds her of the time she went to meet Liza Minelli at the stage door of a show she once saw, only to find it crawling in men chattering in an octave just unnatural for any bearer of a y-chromosome, but she is quickly jerked out of her reverie by a gloved finger in her face and harsh Spanish in her ears, asking if she's traveling alone.

She's shaking her head, feigning misunderstanding, when the door opens again and there's a flash of blonde.

Slipping inside, her eyes scan the lobby. There are police in here, sure, she notes, sliding a hand down her slender thigh, making sure the white linen of her dress eclipses the knife she has strapped tight against her leg, but there aren't nearly as many in here as there are outside.

She's immediately accosted, with demands for her passport and inquiries as to whether or not she's traveling on her own.

That's when she sees her.

Mirrored aviators are lowered and hazel eyes meet brown ones as the turtle-patterned Wayfarers slip back down and this time, their owner fails to push them back up.

The two are together in the center of the room and the police have stopped questioning them in a second.

After a brief meeting behind closed doors - a tan hand is extended, accompanied by a simple, whispered "Rachel," and is met with a murmured "Quinn" and a soft, pale one - the two are toasting.

Rachel grins as she watches tequila raining down from the bottle in her grasp pool and accumulate in her shot glass as it sits pretty next to Quinn's already overflowing one. Quinn laughs and grabs the bottle in Rachel's hand, setting it back down on the table, her carefully manicured fingers lazily gliding against Rachel's wrist as she does so.

Ignoring the blonde's lingering touch, the brunette grabs her glass, raising it high. Her voice can suffer through a few shots; after all, one, it's impeccably trained, and two, Rachel Berry can hold her liquor. She's practiced. One must know how to properly drink if one plans on properly keeping up with producers and directors without falling onto the casting couch.

Quinn raises her glass up to meet Rachel's and there's a slosh of alcohol and a soft _clink_ as Rachel turns her gaze to Quinn. "To dodging bullets."

"To dodging bullets," Quinn echoes, and the two throw their heads back as warmth slides down their throat. Rachel clutches at her chest, coughing, because _yes_, she can hold her liquor, but only when it's mixed with three times as much juice as it is alcohol, and when she spaces her drinks out over a few hours, munching on crackers in the time in between.

Rising, Quinn smirks and shakes her head, running a hand along Rachel's shoulders as she saunters the few feet to the dance floor, quirking an eyebrow at Rachel when the smaller girl fails to follow.

Rachel bites her lip, and, making up her mind, pushes her chair away from the table, making her way over to her svelte counterpart, letting the tequila do the talking as she slides her arms around Quinn's thin waist, pulling her close. Hips graze hips as pale arms slide around a tan neck and forehead leans down to touch forehead.

The two notice neither the thunder nor the lightning, focused instead on the more exceptional electricity between them; it isn't until the two are drenched in rain that they're running for shelter and suddenly they're running and laughing, and, even once Quinn collapses into a chair, she can't seem to stop.

Rachel's stopped, though, and she crawls into Quinn's lap, brown eyes dark, and as her thighs settle around Quinn's, she reaches out, the pads of her fingers lighting on the blonde's soft lips, interrupting her laughter. Breathing out softly against Rachel's fingers, Quinn lifts her hands, ghosting her fingertips down the brunette's arms, where they leave goosebumps in their wake, hands stopping only once they hit waist, where they tighten, squeezing the smaller girl _just so_ as thumbs begin drawing small circles against hipbones.

Exhaling shakily, Rachel presses down into Quinn's lap, and, as Quinn's eyes flutter shut, Rachel leans forward, pressing her lips to Quinn's.

Quinn smells like lilac, but when Rachel gently takes her bottom lip between her own, it's only to discover that what Quinn tastes like is vanilla.

Quinn groans as Rachel bites down on her lip, responding with ardor as she slips her tongue into Rachel's eager mouth. Rachel tastes like strawberries and tequila.

Quinn is fingering the hem of Rachel's dress as the brunette pulls away to catch her breath, palm resting against the blonde's cheek as she offers a murmured "hiya stranger," her lips brushing against Quinn's own as she speaks, not willing to give up such close contact just yet.

Quinn smiles, and leaning forward, bumps her forehead tenderly against the other girl's, eliminating most of what's left of the little space between them. "Hiya back."

Rachel glances down at their rain-soaked bodies. "In retrospect, perhaps white wasn't the optimal choice in color when it came to today's wardrobe choices..."

A grin playing at the corner of her lips, Quinn offers a simple "it's not like meeting you and subsequently getting all wet were foreseeable circumstances at the time," and Rachel's kissing her again, except this team it's less languid and more urgent, and, as romantic as a thunderstorm is, Quinn knows it's time to get out of there stat.

She wakes up alone the next morning.

Quinn blinks and sits up quickly, pulling the sheet up with her, and, biting her lip, runs a hand through her hair. She looks at the empty pillow next to her and sighs, glancing around the room for her clothes and preparing herself to make yet another unnoticed escape, blinking as she's met only with the harsh glare of sunlight filtering through the curtains.

Then the door opens, and the sunlight is no longer a harbinger of hangovers and regret - honestly though, she hadn't really even been that drunk, and she's always made it a point to never regret anything - but instead it's a welcome sign of optimism and also angels, because surely that's what's standing before her now, tray of food in one hand, doorknob still in the other, and an anxious smile on her face.

"Oh," Rachel blushes slightly, glancing down at the floor and brushing a stray strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, "you're awake."

She doesn't give Quinn a chance to respond though, because suddenly she's launched herself into an explanation: "the hotel staff fled; I'm assuming because of the impending coup, but I felt, while it may not be four-course, it's only polite for me to provide you with a nourishing breakfast. Breakfast is, after all, the most important meal of the day, and if skipping it for one's self is bad, disallowing another to have it is absolutely unimaginable..." Rachel stops when Quinn is unexpectedly in front of her, clutching the bed sheet gingerly to her chest with one hand, and setting the plates down on the nearby end table with the other.

Gesturing to the glass of milk in Rachel's hand, Quinn ventures, "you probably milked a goat for that yourself, didn't you?"

Rachel furrows her eyebrows. "Milking a goat isn't all that different from milking a cow, Quinn, all you have to do is-"

Quinn lets the sheet fall to the floor and pulls Rachel towards her, mumbling "no more talking" against the girl's lips before kissing her again. The brunette still tastes like strawberries, but this time, there's only a slight tinge of tequila.

The glass in Rachel's hand tumbles to the floor.

* * *

Quinn is beaming as Rachel's hand dances around her waist and slides into the back pocket of her jeans as the two make their way down the carnival midway, having just shared their first successful stateside kiss. (_Even if it was only a peck,_ Rachel rationalizes, _a public forum is hardly the place for particularly graphic displays of affection, let alone particularly sapphic graphic displays of affection. Especially when there are small children around._) Quinn frowns, though, when the nearest carny leers and suggests to her that she "come try her luck, little lady," but when Rachel begs her to at least _try_ the shooting gallery, she can only sigh in agreement.

Rachel digs around in her pocket, despite Quinn's protests, and hands the man enough for two rounds. He hands over the gun, which Rachel promptly offers to Quinn. The blonde takes it delicately, pausing and pursing her lips at the weapon before pointing it at the moving targets in front of her.

"Do you know how to hold it?" Rachel immediately busies herself with making sure Quinn's hands are properly placed and that her feet are the proper shoulder's width apart. Quinn knows how to carry herself and what to expect, but lets Rachel fuss anyway, closing her eyes as the smaller girls hands loiter around her waist before finally, reluctantly, letting go.

Quinn doesn't hit any of the targets, but she smiles and laughs and soon everyone is laughing with her. Catching her breath, she looks, doe-eyed, up at the carny. "Any chance I can still win a prize?"

He shrugs, smirking, and gestures to Rachel: it's now up to the petite brunette who's about to shoulder a shotgun nearly as big as she is. His smirk fades slightly when Rachel hits nearly every target - the last one, a duck, evades her - and he hands her a small teddy bear as she shrugs at Quinn, batting her eyelashes with a simple "beginner's luck, I suppose."

Rachel blinks, though, as what could only be described as a scowl suddenly flashes across Quinn's face, but it's gone almost as soon as she sees it, replaced with a steely determination as Quinn forces another dollar into the carny's hand, and almost snatches the gun from Rachel's grasp.

She nails every single target.

"Beginner's luck, I guess," she mimics to Rachel, smiling sweetly as she accepts a teddy bear bigger than she is from the man who's still staring at the blonde in shock. Rachel glowers slightly - nobody bests Rachel Berry, no matter how good she looks holding a shotgun - and gives her considerably smaller bear to a child passing by.

* * *

"Rach, you've only known her for six weeks," grunts a tan, muscular man as he dodges left, swings with his right, and uppercuts with his left.

"Noah," Rachel states matter-of-factly, leaning on the ropes that mark the circumference of the boxing ring, tilting her head back as the two men inside grow closer to her edge, "I'm in love."

Noah's head jerks around to stare at the girl, only to take a swift fist to the jaw. He shakes the punch off, and, this time, raises two fists to guard the front of his face before looking back at Rachel. "How do you even know what love is?"

"She's sexy," Rachel explains nonchalantly, picking at short, chipped nails, "and she's spontaneous and crazy and enigmatic-"

"Exactly." Puck is paying the price for his diverted attention now, on his back trying to deflect punch after punch to the face. He fakes a roll to the right and rolls left, jumping back up to his feet. "She's enigmatic."

"There's nothing wrong with being enigmatic," Rachel starts defensively, "a little bit of mystery is crucial to any good relationship: it keeps its participants both interested and on their toes."

"All I'm saying, Rach," Puck signals a time out to his partner, pulling out his mouthguard and off his headgear as Rachel hands him a water bottle, "is this: how long have I been your boy?"

A crease forms in Rachel's forehead in an attempt to calculate the proper amount of time in her head without a calculator. _Carry the one..._

"A long time, right?"

She nods.

"So it just makes sense that me and you should be falling into bed before you and some random chick do, right?"

Rachel just rolls her eyes and throws his headgear back at him.

He catches it, and, pulling it back over his mohawk, shrugs at her. "All I'm saying is that before you enter into any sort of long-term union, you have to have some kind of foundation of _friendship_, you know?" He reaches over the ropes to tousle Rachel's hair with a gloved hand. "And it sounds like the only kind of foundation you and this Quinn chick have is..." He shakes his head and signals time in.

* * *

"Don't you think this is all happening a little _soon?_"

"S," there is a warning tone in Quinn's voice as she chances a quick glance at the Latina to her right before swinging her arm up to grab the next exposed rock. Chastising Santana Lopez for her obvious sneer was high on her list of priorities, but with three thousand feet of nothing between her and the Colorado River, finding a handhold ranked just a little bit higher.

"Alright, sorry," Santana settles her left foot in a crevice, pushing up, "I just worry about you sometimes, okay?"

Quinn sighs and chances another glance over at her compatriot. "San, you know me. You know I don't do anything without thinking it through first."

"Yeah," Santana grumbles, "I know."

There's silence as the two advance a little further, then: "well, what does she do?"

Quinn wants to smile at the girl's attempt to be supportive, but she really has to stretch to reach this hold, and she's still a little sore from her sexcapades in Bogota. "Actress," she manages, finally pulling herself up onto an overhang, "she does all this musical theater and stuff."

* * *

"She's an attorney," Rachel declares proudly as Noah throws a right jab, then a left, landing both hits, "but she's very dedicated to her clients. She's there for them day or night, whenever they need her. Because she just cares _that much_," she adds for emphasis.

* * *

Leaning against the cool rock wall, Quinn notes Santana's still-skeptical gaze and shrugs. "With all her appearances and publicity, she's gone as much as I am, so it's perfect."

* * *

"I'm giving the whole thing six months tops," Noah declares as he dodges an uppercut, "and you're buying me a six pack when I'm right."

"I asked her to move in with me," Rachel says.

It's the shortest and simplest sentence Rachel has ever said, and it catches the mohawked man completely off-guard. "What?"

"We're moving in together."

He's staring at her in shock now, having completely forgotten about his opponent. "I can't be hearing this."

"We're _moving in together!_" Rachel shouts at him as he's knocked to the floor and hit after hit makes contact with near-perfect bone structure.

"God, stop hitting me!" Puck shoves his opponent off of him, sitting up. "I think she just said something crazy."

* * *

Santana has half the mind to push Quinn off the edge of the Grand Canyon then and there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note**: This chapter is by nature a slower one. It'll pick back up in the next part, have no fear!

* * *

Five or six years later...

There's a slight fog hanging around their home as Rachel trudges down the front walk, dragging pale pink bunny slipper-clad feet ("I don't understand why you don't just throw those ratty things out," Quinn would say, and Rachel would just shake her head sadly because clearly Quinn didn't understand the concept of _sentimentality_or that, someday in the not-too-distant future when Rachel is an esteemed member of the EGOT club, "those ratty things" will inspire Ebay bidding wars on par with the impending "zombie apocalypse" Noah keeps going on about) behind her as she rubs at the indent a crease in her pillowcase has made on the side of her face, wide yawn revealing perfect, orthodontically-engineered teeth. Her shuffling stops when she reaches the end of the walk, where she bends over, picks up that morning's copy of the _Times_, and rights herself, only to find her neighbor, a nice, earnest-looking man - _even if there _is_ a gross amount of product in his hair for an hour as early as this,_ Rachel notes - staring at her, his smile widening when she sees him. He raises a hand in greeting, and she merely blinks at him, then turns, shuffling back inside.

Quinn, meanwhile, is watching the morning news. She takes note of the declining trend in peasant tops and babydoll dresses.

This is their typical morning routine: a well-choreographed dance that involves as little interaction as possible.

They're brushing their teeth silently at his-and-hers sinks in the master bathroom when Rachel glances over at the other girl. "You really should be brushing in small circles as opposed to strictly up and down, Quinn," she begins, "as to maximize your chances of getting those hard-to-reach areas-"

"What did you think of the doctor?" Quinn interrupts the brunette smoothly; it's a practiced movement that makes it almost seem as if Rachel hadn't ever even been speaking at all. "She seemed a little wishy-washy."

Rachel watches Quinn in the mirror as the blonde moves to her side of the closet, holding up a pencil skirt and examining it closely. "What about the peasant top I got you for your birthday?" The brunette mumbles around her toothbrush. "I took the liberty of checking the weather after my morning workout, and based on the forecast, it seems as if it would be the more favorable choice."

Quinn, remembering what she'd seen on the new earlier, looks repulsed at the term "peasant top," and gives Rachel a disdainful look in the mirror as she shimmies out of her nightgown and slides the form-fitting black skirt over long legs and slender hips.

Rachel spits into the sink. "Well _I_ found Miss Pillsbury to be almost insightful." She drops her toothbrush into its holder and crosses over to her half of the closet.

Quinn glares at her, fastening the last button on her blouse. "Her office is all the way across town."

"I suppose our four o'clock appointment time does find us at a disadvantage due to the heavy influx of rush hour traffic." Rachel pulls out and promptly examines a plaid skirt.

"So it's settled then? No more Miss Pillsbury?" Quinn fiddles with the clasp of a hoop earring.

"Okay." Rachel slides her feet into patent leather loafers.

The two girls fall silent, both moving toward their bedroom door at the same time. Quinn bristles at the contact when the two bump into each other, slipping through the door and down the stairs as Rachel steps back to let her go first. "Dinner at seven?"

"I'll be here," Rachel mutters at the back of Quinn's head as she follows her down the stairs.

* * *

Quinn is staring, fascinated, into the oven, and it isn't until she hears the garage door opening that she's jerked out of whatever strange reverie she's found herself in -_cooking,_ she muses, _really?_ - and she straightens, gaze sliding over to the window.

It takes Rachel six whole minutes to properly back her car into the garage.

Shaking her head, Quinn diverts her attention to the cutting knife lying on the table. She picks it up, twirling it once, twice. It's halfway through a third rotation when she catches it, thinking it best to cut some vegetables, not because she feels the unending urge to cut something, she assures herself, but for the sake of appearances.

In the garage, Rachel is straightening her argyle and rubbing furiously at a lipstick stain on the neatly-pressed oxford collar underneath.

Quinn stares at the carrots in front of her. How were you even supposed to cut carrots, anyway?

"I'm home," Rachel declares, announcing her presence as she steps inside and closes the garage door behind her.

Having given up on the carrots, Quinn looks up from the bell peppers she's moved on to massacring in front of her. "Just in time."

"Oh!" Rachel pauses, and, after momentarily rummaging through her purse (since when was it so big? And since when had she acquired such a copious amount of sunglasses?), pulls out a stick of butter and lets it fall onto the cutting board. "Some butter."

Quinn manages a tight-lipped smile, and she and Rachel exchange a short peck on the lips, followed by a simple "how was the reading?"

"It was alright, although I must say, I felt the playwright-"

"This is salted."

Rachel blinks at Quinn. "What?"

A flick of Quinn's wrist indicates the butter still sitting on the cutting board in front of her. "It's salted."

Rachel blinks again. "Is there any other kind?"

"Unsalted, like I asked for," Quinn mutters, but Rachel's already out of range, making her way into the living room.

Everything is silent for a moment and Quinn, sighs, staring at the butter. It's not like she'd planned on using it, anyway, but still. It was the principle of the matter.

Then there's a scream and Rachel's back in the kitchen, fists clenching and unclenching at her sides, jaw tight.

Quinn glances up from her butter-bound trance with a nonchalant "so you saw the new curtains."

Rachel's mouth is opening and closing now, like a fish out of water, but no words are coming out.

"It was a bit of a struggle with a little tea sandwich of a man," the fairer-skinned girl muses, "he got his hands on them first, but a carefully-planned distraction in the form of a pink faux-satin monkey pillow and they were mine." She glances at Rachel, whose face is now turning a violent shade of purple, and continues, "I mean, they're a little red, hence the new upholstery on the love seats, and I'm thinking maybe about finding a new rug to complete the room, maybe a Persian..."

"Or," Rachel finally manages, voice distressingly low for such a well-established soprano, "you could have saved yourself both the unnecessary battle and the enormous waste of time and simply kept our previous, perfectly-suitable set of curtains."

"Rachel," Quinn starts warningly, hazel eyes flaring up, "we talked about this, remember?"

"I do in fact recall that conversation, Quinn," Rachels voice is rising now, "because I remember the two of us very specifically coming to the conclusion that it would be in our best interest to _wait_ before making any further decor-related endeavors."

"Well if you don't like them, I can just take them back!" Quinn snaps.

The two are silent, brown eyes boring into hazel ones, neither with the intent to relent.

"Fine," Rahcel finally breathes out, "I don't like them."

Quinn turns on her heel, and, throwing a quick "you'll get used to them" over her shoulder, retreats upstairs.

* * *

_(There is the soft click of a tape recorder beginning to record.)_

**EMMA**: So, Rachel, here we are for part two, only this time you're here alone. What made you choose to come back?

**RACHEL**: To be honest, Mi- Emma, I'm not entirely sure as to why I made such a decision- _(There is a pause, as if Rachel is evaluating her words carefully.)_ Please, don't misunderstand my presence here, I do love Quinn - very much, in fact - and I also want very much for her to be happy. I wish only the best for her in any venture she may choose to make, although I must say that, unequivocally, on occasion...

**EMMA**: Yes, Rachel?

_(Rachel makes an indistinguishable sound in her throat; it sounds something akin to a dying hippo.)_

**EMMA**: Okay then.

* * *

Rachel and Quinn sit up in bed as the yellow glow from matching bedside lamps washes over them. Quinn's lips are pursed thoughtfully as she reads, turning the page of whatever novel du jour she's concerned herself with now.

Rachel leans over and flips off the lamp on her side, snuggling under the covers. There's a moment of silence as she stares up at the ceiling, then: "Sweetie, would you just-"

"Five more minutes."

Rachel lets her head fall back onto her pillow with a huff.

* * *

**EMMA**: So what's the problem?

**QUINN**: There's just this giant space between us, and it keeps filling up with everything that we're not saying to each other. _(She is silent for a moment.)_ What's that called?

**EMMA**: Commitment.

_(The two are quiet.)_

**EMMA**: Well, what is it that you two aren't saying to each other?

_(Quinn sighs.)_

* * *

Rachel and Quinn are sitting on opposite ends of their dining room table.

_It seems so much longer than it actually is,_ Quinn notes as she gently lays a cream-colored napkin into her lap, smoothing it and glancing up when she hears the unnaturally soft sound of Rachel's voice.

"This looks very nice, Quinn." Rachel is silent again, staring down at the plate in front of her, then, "I assume you both revisited and revised your traditional meatloaf recipe?"

Quinn's voice is equally soft. "I added carrots."

"Oh. That would explain the orange, then."

Quinn smiles slightly, glancing back down at her plate, but their newfound peace is quickly broken when Rachel speaks up again.

"Could you pass the salt?"

Quinn raises an eyebrow at her. "It's in the middle of the table, Rachel."

The softer quality in Rachel's voice is gone, replaced with a more harsh, challenging tone. "Oh, is that the middle of the table? I wasn't aware."

"Yes," Quinn replies, a trace of spite slipping into her voice, "it's what's between you and me."

Rachel just stares at her.

Quinn stares back evenly.

Finally, pushing her chair back, Rachel rises and Quinn's almost afraid she's going to perform "the perfect storm-out" for the third time this week (it's only Tuesday, and Rachel's already approaching her monthly quota), but instead Rachel does something much worse: with a derisive straightening of her sweater vest, she leans across her entire half of the table, reaching across her plate, her wine glass, and a meticulously-designed floral arrangement, crushing a bud or two, and, grabbing the salt, proceeds to salt her meal gratuitously.

Quinn's still staring at her, only more than slightly less than evenly now.

Brown eyes are locked on hazel and sparks are flying as Rachel empties what appears to be the entire contents of the salt onto her meatloaf, proceeds to stab it with her fork, and, after much struggling to cut the damned thing - its consistency is somewhat akin to the rubber Grammy award her two gay dads had given to her when she'd begun teething, and who even cooks meatloaf that much, let alone serves it at all anymore, _honestly_ - she shovels a bite into her mouth, chewing very loudly and very visibly.

Rachel would be disgusted with herself if not for Quinn's horrified expression and the fact the blonde's fork has stopped halfway to her mouth. So Rachel swallows, smirks, and, picking up a nearby script, starts to read.

* * *

**EMMA**: Well, how honest are you with her?

**QUINN**: I think you misunderstand. It's not like I'm lying to her or anything, it's just... I mean, we all have our little secrets. Everybody has secrets, right?

* * *

Somehow, after the disaster that was their dinner, Rachel and Quinn are able to be in the kitchen together long enough to do the dishes.

Quinn hands Rachel a plate, Rachel rinses it in cool water, and sets it on a nearby towel to dry. So goes dishwashing, and so it's gone for a very long time.

So when Quinn moves to the other side of Rachel and picks the dish back up, Rachel blinks. When Quinn re-rinses the plate (_probably just to be flippant,_ the brunette remarks to herself, remembering the meticulousness with which she'd hosed the china down), Rachel steps back, and leaning against the counter, picks up her third glass of wine, drinking deeply. Rachel didn't used used to drink this much; she can still remember with a shudder the days when even a simple sip was downright unheard of.

Long-term cohabitation will do that to you.

Finally setting the plate back down on the towel, Quinn slides into the hall to get a second cloth from the linen closet. She's barely out the door when she hears the crash. _God,_ she thinks, _I can't even leave her alone for one second_.

Rachel sees Quinn's departure as an opportunity to release everything she's been feeling the past... Well, while, and, picking up the still-damp plate, throws it to the ground and watches as it bursts into tiny pieces.

Long-term cohabitation will do that to you, too.

* * *

**EMMA**: I know it probably feels like you two are the only people in the world that are going through this, but I'll tell you something: there are millions of couples out there that are dealing with these exact same problems you two are.

**RACHEL**: _(disbelievingly)_ Uh-huh.

_(The two are quiet for a moment.)_

**RACHEL**: Is that why you have so many pamphlets?


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note**: And, almost three months later, I'm back! I got really wrapped up trying to finish my semester at school and then trying to get readjusted at home, and for that I'm sorry. Thanks to my bb **spentayearinla** (she's over at livejournal) for finally making me sit down and write this, along with helping me with a few details along the way.

* * *

Rachel exhales softly as she lets her head fall back against the cracked leather of the seat behind her, doing her best not to breathe in when at all possible. The cab smells like onions, and onions are the one smell she can't stand, especially when coupled with her less than content stomach. She's not entirely sure _that_ much salt was worth the stomach ache, and she's not even going to start thinking about the swollen digits she's going to have to deal with tomorrow.

_Oh well_, she muses as she pulls a flask out of her bag and takes a deep sip, barely even noticing the increased warmth as the alcohol slides down her throat, instead remembering Quinn's horrified face upon seeing her prized china in pieces, _it's not as if I'll have any particular person in which to engage them anytime soon._

The cab finally slows - although it had been going fairly slow to start with, Rachel tells herself, sliding the flask back into her purse and attempting to justify why it was already so empty - and the brunette pulls a handful of bills out of her wallet, all but throwing them at the driver. She really can't afford physical contact with him, especially with the sudden influx of the avian flu that's been going around.

She mutters a brief "just keep it" when he offers her her change, and, exiting the cab onto less than steady feet, slams the door shut behind her as she heads towards the seediest-looking bar on the block.

* * *

Quinn is just standing there, frozen to the spot, staring at the remnants of her beloved tableware on the ground, neither speaking nor breathing.

Rachel's eyes are darting between the shattered glass and the motionless blonde in front of the whole mess, suddenly wishing she'd never done anything and fearing the frigid response that was sure to come.

But the ringing saves her.

The ringing!

Both jerk up at the same time, pulled from their respective reveries by the prospect of some urgent _thing_ requiring their attention. Anything, they seem to think, would be better than here.

"Oh," Quinn says breathlessly, relieved, "it's me."

Later, as Rachel looks on from her spot on the floor where she's picking up shard after shard of what was once a spotless - just as she thought! - plate, Quinn paces, resolved, up and down the hallway, listening to whoever is on the other end of the line and nodding occasionally. Every once in a while, though, she'll stop and a genuine laugh will escape, and Rachel's reminded of a time five or six years ago when things were different.

She sighs and dumps the shards into the trash.

* * *

A shiny black car door opens and the first thing the doorman sees is a shiny black boot and then fishnet - miles and miles of fishnet - sliding out, followed quickly by a pale, crimson-lipped blonde pulling a close-fitting trench coat close around her thin frame. He gulps as it hugs her in all the right places, and, noting his stare, she winks at him as she saunters by.

Quinn bites the inside of her cheek as a mustached man sifts through her bag, passing by a worn pair of aviators, a tube of lipstick, and finally a pair of handcuffs. He looks at her and she smiles and quirks and eyebrow as if to say "yes, you'd like it too," and he nods knowingly and simply says "we've got a plane in an hour."

* * *

She's busy tying the belt of her trench in a meticulous knot when she hears soft footsteps and the squeak of hinges behind her and suddenly a shining blonde curtain of hair is whipping around and Quinn's arms are extended in front of her in an impeccable knife-hand guarding block, ready to protect her from whomever had been sneaking up on her.

Rachel merely blinks at her, eyes flitting down to the other girl's perfect form before coming back up to settle on her face.

The blonde quickly drops her arms and turns back to her mirror. "Jesus, Rachel, you scared me."

Rachel crosses her arms and keeps her eyes trained on her Quinn. "I see you've added the impressive distinction of martial artist to your ever-growing list of accomplishments."

She's met with a shrug. "One of my clients is a black belt. She offered a few lessons and I figured I might as well know how to defend myself."

"You seem remarkably advanced for simply having taken a few lessons."

"I don't know, Rachel," there's a twinge of annoyance in Quinn's voice now, "I guess it's just beginner's luck or something. Why did you need to come in here again?"

The shorter girl's busied herself with the bureau on the opposite wall, rifling through one of her drawers, back to the taller one. "Seeing as this is my house just as much as it is yours, I simply came in here to retrieve my, uh..." Trailing off, she watches the other girl's movements in the mirror above the bureau, quickly changing the subject. "You going out?"

Grinding her teeth, Quinn turns to face Rachel. "One of my clients' soon-to-be ex-husbands is having a custody crisis and refuses to hand over the kid, so I have to take care of it. So yeah, I am going out."

The brunette doesn't turn around, instead fixing brown eyes on the reflection of hazel ones in the mirror. "We promised the Schuesters."

The blonde turns back around. "Yeah I know," she says, stuffing a pair of fishnets into her bag and praying Rachel doesn't see, "it'll just be a quickie." She'll have to finish changing in the car.

* * *

Rachel gives her collar a derisive pop and steps inside the bar. She's instantly greeted with the smells of musky cigarette smoke and beer as she zigzags her way around leering men, most of whom, she notes, should really opt for the option of a light beer as opposed to the more heavy-caloried ones they've obviously been drinking.

She pauses in front of a mirror though, and blinks at her reflection. Popping her collar was a terrible idea.

She's smoothing the white Oxford back down when she reaches her destination: a splintery door with peeling, olive-green paint with a sign on it that reads _Employees Only,_ and, scribbled in red pen underneath it: _everyone else can fuck off_. With a huff, the petite brunette puffs out her chest and pushes open the door.

"Oy!" A rough slur permeates the low hum of the crowd outside as Rachel faux stumbles through the door, grinning up at the room's occupants, tongue darting out to moisten her lips.

She offers a "whoopsie" in an octave above her normal speaking voice - because a diligent vocal workout regimen can _always_ come in handy, regardless of the situation - and three balding heads whip around to look at her.

"What's this?" The first voice, which seems to belong to a man who is considerably balder than his compatriots, seems to soften as he takes in the sloppy grin of the brunette before him.

"I'm sorry, sir," Rachel says, letting the words fall out of her mouth a jumble of sounds, "I was looking for the," she throws in a light _hic!_ for good nature, "powder room."

"Christ..." The considerably balder man is looking her up and down now, and he gulps.

Suddenly Rachel blinks and her eyes go wide. "Are you gentlemen partaking in a game of... Poker?" The last word leaves her mouth in a whisper, as if the potential of a game of poker is almost too good to be true.

Considerably Balder Man opens his mouth, but not before a considerably fatter man can cut him off. "This is a _private game_," he spits out, glaring at Considerably Balder Man.

"But perhaps I could just sit in, yes? Do you gentlemen think I could perhaps just sit in?"

One look at Rachel's overeager brown eyes and her her lightly swaying petite stature is enough for Considerably Balder Man, who starts to pull an extra chair out from under the table, but Considerably Fatter Man, glaring, shoves it back under and rises, inspiring a slight crease between Rachel's brows. "What part of _private game,_" he hisses, "do you not understand?"

Suddenly finding her personal space invaded by a protruding belly, the petite girl stumbles back with a slurred "someone apparently didn't learn anything from his mother." It seems to have an averse effect, though, when the pudgy face looking down at her reddens, and she quickly adds "I'm simply saying you could be a little more jovial in your discontent." She sniffs and turns her attention to her bag, turning her head down to dig through it.

When a calloused hand quickly claps down on her shoulder and squeezes a little too hard, her head jerks up to find Considerably Fatter Man holding his jacket open, revealing a loaded Walther PPK/E. Eyes widening considerably, she pulls her hand out of her purse, clutching an intricately rolled wad of bills. "I was just showing you I could play," Rachel mumbles, eyes flitting from the money in her hand up to to the man's face and back down to the floor again.

The men are silent.

Rachel's already looking up again, though, grinning. "Just like a chick in the casino, take your bank before I pay you out, I promise this, promise this, check this hand cause I am marve-"

Three pairs of eyes widen then, as Rachel's feet seemingly fly out from under her and she hastily makes an attempt not to catch herself, but instead to keep her skirt from flying up to reveal black, lace-trimmed panties.

She fails at both, though, and three pairs of eyes make themselves wider still.

"So if you want me to sit in," the tan girl is talking again as she struggles to stand up, "I'll sit in and I'll play a rousing game of cards with you. And if you don't..." She pauses when both hands land on the seat of a chair and attempts to push herself up, "then that's perfectly suitable as far as- Oh, look. Here's an empty chair. I'll sit right here."

"That," Considerably Fatter Man growls, "is Lucky's chair."

Rachel's head whips around faster than that time Quinn - on their third date, and very rudely for that matter - falsely told her Patti LuPone was in line for pizza behind them and her eyes scan the room wildly before settling back onto Considerably Fatter Man and blinking at him. "Has Lucky been gifted with the long thought to be impossible power of invisibility?"

Considerably Balder Man stifles a chuckle.

"Because," Rachel drawls, "I don't see Lucky."

Considerably Fatter Man is losing his resolve. "That's because Lucky's not back yet," he sighs.

"Well then I'll just sit here then," Rachel declares, and, with a lopsided grin and a straightening of her skirt, "unless I'm too hot for you."

* * *

Quinn's leaning against the wall, arms folded tightly across her chest as she surveys the room, eyes flitting from the open window to the door and back again, sighing as she hears gurgling, followed by spitting, from the adjacent bathroom. Pushing herself off the wall, she lets her eyes drift closed, stretching her neck first to the the left and then to the right, finally reopening her eyes to smile, catlike, as a muscular, tan man with a mess of brown curls atop his head and sideburns emerges from the bathroom, shirtless save for a small gold chain around his neck, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

He pauses when he notices he's no longer alone, and, eyes moving first down Quinn's lissome figure and then back up, he greedily takes in every inch of the woman in front of him as cracked lips turn up into what would best be described as more of a leer than a grin.

He's breathing heavily now, panting, and Quinn's still smiling that feline smile at him, reaching down to lazily untie the knotted belt at the waist of her coat, hazel eyes locked on foggy brown. Black fabric slips down to reveal creamy white shoulders, and as the trench slips noiselessly to the floor, her companion takes in the stark contrast between smooth ivory skin and shiny black leather.

As the haze in his eyes intensifies, Quinn's smile has gone from catlike to predatory, and, reaching a well-manicured hand up, she pulls on the band constraining her hair to a tight bun, letting it cascade to rest just below her shoulders, before she licks her lips and steps forward.

* * *

Rachel leans back in her chair, almost to the tipping point, and, rummaging through her purse - seriously, copious amounts of sunglasses when all she needed were her old turtle-patterned wayfarers? - finds her (now long empty) flask and carelessly tosses it onto the table.

"_To dodging bullets,_" Considerably Fatter Man reads out, picking up the flask and examining it carefully, "_love Quinn._"

"Put it in the pot!" Rachel shouts, not quite at a loud enough volume that would put unneeded stress on her vocal cords, but loud enough to signal that its source was an inebriate, pointing at the pile of bills in the center of the table. "Put it in the pot!"

The men all "ohhh" excitedly before continuing their game.

Rachel is winning.

More goes in the pot.

Rachel puts down another winning hand and Considerably Quieter Man, the third in the party, pulls her in for a nuggie.

All four of them are laughing together.

Rachel is fixing the buttons on her Oxford, having removed her argyle, and shaking a finger at Considerably Fatter Man for having dared look a little too long.

More goes in the pot.

All four of them are doing shots.

Rachel is losing.

"She's got 14 different tells!" Considerably Fatter Man is shouting happily, "and you're all bleeding chips!"

They're all singing the "ba da dum"s of the overture to _William Tell_ together, Rachel correcting Considerably Balder Man's pitch - and who knew Considerably Quieter Man had such a lovely voice? - when the door flies open and there's a voice from the doorway and everything comes to a sudden stop.

"What the Hell is this?"

"Sorry," Considerably Fatter Man mumbles to the figure who's now made his way inside and locked the door behind him, and then, turning to Rachel, swallows. "Looks like you're done, darlin', thanks for the memories."

"Oh!" Rachel claps her hands excitedly, realization dawning on her face as she points at the still standing figure. "You're Lucky?"

"Yeah."

"No kidding?" Rachel says in wonderment.

"So what is it, girlie?" Lucky asks, crossing his arms, "you looking for a job or something?"

There's an instant change in the brunette's demeanor as she smirks, and, pulling twin Browning Buckmark Campers out of God knows where, offers a short and very much sober "you are the job," before pulling the trigger to hit Lucky square in the chest.

The three other men instantly reach for their guns, but Rachel's already pushed back from the table and, after three more shots, the room is silent again.

She stands, straightening her skirt and pulling her sweater vest back on, and leans forward to grab her flask from the center of the table. There's a pause, and then she leans forward a little further to check Considerably Quieter Man's hand. "A pair of threes," she mumbles, and shakes her head before grabbing her bag and turning on her heel to leave.

* * *

The curly-haired man is on the ground, knees digging into plush carpeting and wrists handcuffed a little too tightly behind his back as Quinn stands behind him, still wearing that predatory smile, gliding a riding crop softly down his spine. She reaches his lower back and drags the riding crop back up, purring softly. "Have you been a bad boy?"

He gasps out. "Yes."

There's a loud _crack_ as she swiftly brings the crop down on his back. "You know what happens to bad boys when they get punished?" She asks, arching an eyebrow.

"Oh yeah," he groans, parroting the blonde's words, "punish me."

Quinn grins, whipping him again and slides to her knees behind him, slipping an arm around to caress his face. "Have you been selling big guns to bad people?"

There's a pause, neither speaking, the man's mind racing to process what he's just heard, but his efforts are futile: with a swift motion of Quinn's arms, her prey falls limply to the floor, and she rises, sliding one arm then another back into the sleeves of her jacket.

She's pulling her hair back up into its strict bun when she hears knocking on the door, and, sighing, takes one last look at herself before grabbing her bag off the bed and chancing a glance at her watch. It's almost eight. The blonde sighs again. _Great,_ she remembers, _the Schuesters._

The sound of pistols cocking just outside the door brings her back to the present, and sliding one handle of her bag around the handle of the window, she looks back once more to see the door opening before she backs up and, holding the free handle of her purse in a death grip, takes a running leap out the window.

Her purse uncoils as she falls, slowing her descent until she finally lets go about a foot up from the sidewalk, and, with a smile and a "taxi?" slides into a cab waiting beside the valet.

* * *

Quinn and Rachel are walking side-by-side up the Schuesters' front walk, close enough to dissuade any rumblings of trouble in their relationship, but each managing to avoid contact with the other.

"Did everything proceed well at work?" Rachel asks politely.

"Yeah."

The two are quiet for a minute, then:

"And how was the show?"

"It was slightly above average, despite its poorly produced set pieces."

The two are at the front door now and Quinn's opening her mouth to say something when she suddenly stops, pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes at Rachel.

Rachel blinks at her.

"Have you been _drinking_?" Quinn hisses.

Rachel's eyebrows furrow and Quinn knows she's about to get a rant and a half when suddenly the door opens and she doesn't think she's ever been so glad to see the Schuesters' overly enthusiastic faces.

"Welcome neighbors!" They chorus.

Rachel and Quinn break into matching grins that don't quite meet their eyes as they step inside with equally matching "hi!"s.

"It's lovely to see you, as always, Mrs. Schuester," Rachel nods at the woman in front of her, who smiles politely back with a simple "it's nice to see you too, Rachel."

Quinn ignores Mr. Schuester's attempts at a hello and looks around the foyer. "It looks really great in here."

Mrs. Schuester's eyes light up as she steps forward to take Quinn's coat. "Thank you, Quinn. Oh," she lets out a gasp, "what a lovely dress."

"_Thank you_," the blonde turns to glare at Rachel, who hadn't made any kind of remark at all about her new dress, but Rachel already has her back turned to Quinn and is deep in conversation with Mr. Schuester about the merits of contemporary rock opera versus traditional Chinese opera. Quinn's glare intensifies.

A little taken aback by the girl's apparently very repressed anger, Mrs. Schuester takes her by the shoulders and guides her into the living room. "Come on sweetie," she whispers, "let's go see the girls."

"Don't stray too far!" Mr. Schuester calls after them, laughing as he turns back to Rachel. "You want a drink?"

"Oh no," Rachel shakes her head, Quinn's "have you been _drinking_?" still playing over and over in her mind, "I don't drink."

Mr. Schuester nods. "Clean body, clean soul. That's what Terri says."

Rachel gives a nervous laugh, because, quite frankly, saying Mrs. Schuester intimidated her was an understatement. "Isn't that the truth?"

Mr. Schuester observes her for a minute, before glancing at Quinn in the living room and then turning back to Rachel. "Do you two have _any_ vices?"

"Oh. Well, you know." It's probably the first time in her life Rachel Berry has failed to give a less than five word response.

* * *

Mrs. Schuester turns to Quinn on the couch. "Can I get you a drink? I can't have anything because I'm," she gestures to her flat stomach, "with child, but I'd be happy to indulge you."

The blonde leans back into the couch, her - unnoticed to her - dress sliding back to reveal the black fishnets she's still wearing. "Ah, yes. Um, chardonnay please."

Mrs. Schuester stares at the fishnets, open-mouthed, until finally she rises and manages a slight "girls?"

The other women around them nod and ask for chardonnay as well, and Quinn, glancing down to see what Mrs. Schuester has been staring at, hastily attempts to cover herself up._Shit._

Once she's sufficiently revirginized her legs - _if only it were so easy as pulling your dress down_, Quinn thinks bitterly - she looks at the rest of the women sitting around her.

Every single one of them is holding a baby.

She grimaces.

"So Chuck got a promotion," one of them is saying.

"Oh my God, that is so great," another is gushing.

Quinn's eyes are wide and both her eyebrows are raised as she surveys the women around her. Is this what married life is like?

Not that she wants to get married.

Quickly reaching for her glass - Mrs. Schuester has bustled back in and settled herself back on the couch a safe distance away from Quinn and her fishnet - Quinn puts it to her lips and downs its entire contents in a single gulp.

It hasn't been a second since she's put her glass down and suddenly a baby is being shoved into her lap and another blonde woman - one chubbier than herself, Quinn notes happily - is going on about needing to wear a raincoat whenever she has a baby on her lap and if Quinn could just hold her for a moment it'd be lovely.

"What? No!"

"No, please, really, it's only-"

"I'd really rather not."

The other women are looking at her strangely now, and Quinn's sure she can hear them wondering just what exactly her problem is.

"But the applique-"

"Really, I don't-"

But suddenly a baby is thrust into her hands and its mother has wandered away on a search for seltzer and the pale girl is holding that _thing_ an arm's length away and staring at it. She's pretty sure it's like something she saw in some alien movie once.

The baby stares back.

And then, to her horror, it _smiles_.

"Ohh," Mrs. Schuester coos, "she likes you!"

Quinn's jaw clenches and hazel eyes lock with the brown ones across the room. How is it fair that Rachel gets to talk Hungarian arias with Mr. Schuester while Quinn has to suffer through the Estrogen Brigade?

The baby giggles at Quinn and all the women around her giggle with it.

From across the room, Rachel stares, terrified of the scene before her but more so of the wrath Quinn's going to subject her to when they get home. She sees murder in Quinn's eyes.

And then she sees something else. Something that looks like a plea for help.

Rachel turns around and leaves the room.

* * *

The brunette is seated on the counter of their bathroom, watching Quinn brush her teeth. "I liked your dress tonight," she offers quietly. "It was nice."

"Thank you," Quinn says around her toothbrush.

Rachel resumes trimming her nails.

Quinn spits and quirks an eyebrow as the brunette's fingernail clippings fall in the sink. "Really?" her expression seems to ask, "You really think _tonight_ is going to be any different than any other night the past six and a half months?"

Rachel ignores her and continues.

* * *

The two women power off their respective cell phones, setting them on each respective bedside table, and climb into bed, staring at the ceiling.

"Goodnight."

"G'night, Quinn."

The two turn onto their sides, backs facing each other, and stare at the wall until they fall asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Rachel growls and gives her suitcase a determined tug as she tows the hot pink canvas bag across the immaculately-maintained lawn towards the shed in the far corner of the yard. Suddenly the handle is flying out of her hand though, and her suitcase is falling, the top of it hitting the back of her foot.

She lets out a squeak of pain - a howl isn't worth the serious damange it could possibly inflict on her vocal cords - and whirls around to find the perpetrator behind her fumble.

She's met only with a raised line of dirt.

Scowling, she squints up at the window to their bedroom and lets out a shriek. "Quinn!" Noting bitterly how the well-being of her voice no longer seems to matter when she's reprimanding Quinn, the petite girl grabs a stone at the ground and chucks it at the window. "Quinn!"

There's no response.

Rachel sighs and scowls, kicking the upturned dirt angrily before grabbing her bag and stomping the rest of the way towards the shed. She'd _told_ Quinn the mole needed to be taken care of. In fact, her pristine memory - how else is one supposed to remember one's lines, especially when one must carry an entire show? - recalls the conversation clearly.

* * *

_"Quinn, I believe a mole has decided to make our yard its home."_

"Okay."

"Okay?" Rachel's voice has that incredulous tone to it, her partner notices, and the blonde sighs. It's been a long day, and she's in no mood to bicker.

"Yes, Rachel. Okay."

"That's it? Just okay?" The brunette's voice is inching higher now. "A rodent_ has made the exceedingly rude decision to make _our home_ its stomping grounds to both uproot and potentially birth its children in, which can only lead to _more_ of such rodents and greaten the infestation already running rampant through our flowerbeds-"_

"One," Quinn begins warily, "we don't have_ any flowerbeds. We have grass. Two," she holds up a hand when Rachel opens her mouth to interrupt, "there's only one mole, so saying it's going to procreate, even if it _is_ a girl is pointless," here she ignores Rachel's mumbled "well you two better make friends because _you_won't be getting any, either" and finishes, " and three, you said so yourself: it's a rodent. I'm pretty sure rodents don't make conscious decisions, let alone exceedingly rude ones."_

Rachel huffs and opens her mouth a second time, but Quinn interrupts her again.

"However - and this is just to avoid any fit you might through because I'm honestly just not in the mood for it tonight - I'll call the exterminator tomorrow."

Rachel's still scowling and Quinn's wishing it would lighten up, if just for a minute, and the tanner girl looks at her for a few more seconds before proclaiming "I'm going to bed" and stalking upstairs.

Quinn sighs and thinks that, while she would've preferred a kiss, a hug or even a handshake would be nice, not only because she really hates the concept of an exterminator - something Rachel instilled in her years ago, oddly enough - but also because sometimes, she admits to herself, sometimes she just misses soft hands and the smell of strawberries.

* * *

The brunette finally reaches the shed, after running through seven different _why-didn't-Quinn-call-the-exterminator?_ scenarios in her head and settling on her personal favorite "because she's an insensitive bitch." Pleased with her selection, she cracks open the door and slips in, pulling her - now muddly - overnighter in behind her.

Flipping on the lights, she's instantly calmed and surveys the room with a smile. Upon first moving in, she'd renovated the garden shed in the backyard - gardening was something she left to her two gay dads ever since she'd been six and her bean sprout had been the only one in her class that failed to grow, resulting in Rachel Berry's first ever diva storm out as well as her first and only visit to the principal's office, something she was still attempting to get expunged from her otherwise pristine record - making it into a ballet studio, lined with obsessively cleaned mirrors and a shining birch ballet bar.

That's all Quinn knew about it, anyway.

Rachel glances out the door one last time, and satisfied when she's met only with remnants of the morning fog, lingering over moist grass and molehills, she gives it a gentle push, and, hearing a soft _click_, she smiles to herself as she slides the deadbolt into place, reveling for a moment in her sanctuary of a tin shed.

* * *

Quinn's eyes snap open as soon as she hears Rachel less-than-gracefully slamming shut the door of that godawful eyesore in their backyard, and she rises, padding over to the window and pulling aside a white linen curtain to examine the window. If Rachel's little scene earlier that morning - something Quinn had chosen to ignore, instead rolling both her eyes and over onto her other side to stare at the empty half of the bed next to her - had chipped the glass, Quinn was fully prepared to give her Hell when she returned from New York.

Instead, though, Quinn's eyes are met with smooth glass and the sight of their less than slightly dilapidated backyard. Oh, right. The exterminator.

_Still,_ she thinks, sighing, as she heads towards the bathroom, she probably wouldn't have cared so much if Rachel's stone-throwing spectacle had been more_Romeo and Juliet_ than nagging wife.

Not that she wants Rachel to be her wife, of course.

By the time she's started brushing her teeth, she's forgotten all about the exterminator. Instead, she's making sure to brush her teeth in small circles. To get those hard to reach areas or whatever.

* * *

Rachel's dragging her valise back across the lawn, struggling futilely to lift it over the molehill, when she catches a flurry of movement coming from the bedroom window.

A blonde, well-manicured flurry of movement.

It's gone as soon as Rachel sees it, though, and before she knows it her bag is falling over again, this time making a splash as it falls into a mud puddle.

Rachel blames Quinn.

* * *

Quinn hears the garage door opening followed by the rumbling of the engine as Rachel's car starts up and then drives away. _Of course Rachel would forget to close the garage door._

The blonde makes her way down the stairs, stomping perhaps a little too hard, and pausing to slip into the cool garage and make sure the door is properly closed before finally making her way into the kitchen. The sun is shining through the windows and she feels weirdly like Katrina and the Waves should be playing because even though she was having a bad day before, she isn't anymore.

A beep from her phone and she's back to reality, though, and Quinn jerks her attention away from the window, heading towards the oven.

Her fingers slide over the stainless steel surface, fingers lingering on buttons and pushing down just so even though the oven is neither in use nor about to be, and within a few short seconds the door is opening and gears are turning and something that's more of an arsenal than a tray and certainly doesn't belong in any sort of oven is emerging. There's a split second of contemplation on Quinn's face before she reaches out and slides a nickel Heckler & Koch P7M13 into her palm and then, as quickly as it emerged, the tray is disappearing back into the oven.

Contented smile on her face, Quinn slides the weapon into her purse and turns on the morning news.

"Mother Nature will be shaking off this chill soon enough," the weather girl is saying, "and ladies, you better pull those peasant tops right back out, because things will certainly be heating up soon."

A back piercing kick from Quinn and the oven door's slamming shut.

* * *

_"Absolutely. I'll be there in the morning." Rachel's nodding._

"Of course." Quinn's examining her nails unconcernedly.

They're both on the phone.

Rachel ends her call with a curt "alright" while Quinn hangs up with a purse of her lips.

Rachel chances a glance at her counterpart. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah. My mother thinks she has pneumonia, but it's probably just a cold."

"Oh." Rachel is quiet for a minute. "Maybe you should go see her. I'm sure she'd enjoy that."

"Yeah. Maybe I will."

An awkward - but not unfamiliar - silence falls over the two, before Quinn turns to Rachel again. "Who was that on the phone?"

"Just a friend of mine in New York City who keeps a hand in the business, though I fear she'll be kept off the stage for a while due to a torn ACL."

Quinn looks at her pointedly. "And?"

Something in Rachel snaps. "I don't see why you have to know everything that's going on in my life, Quinn!"

There's a flash of something in Quinn's eyes for a split second and it's gone before Rachel can identify it. She calms, though, and sighs. "There are a few open calls for touring companies in the coming days and she felt I should audition."

Quinn's still looking at her and an unasked question is lingering in the air between them.

"I'll fly out in the morning," Rachel supplies, "and I'll be gone a couple of days."

"I see," Quinn turns on her side, back to Rachel, and flips off the light.

Rachel, who's gotten quiet, does the same.

Another "I see," whispered this time, fills the darkness, and it's the last thing either of them remember before they fall asleep.

* * *

There's a soft _ding_ from a polished bell on the door as Rachel slips into Puckerman Traveling Agency, offering a small smile to the slightly ruffled-looking older woman behind the desk who's chirping a "morning Rachel!" at her.

Rachel manages a "morning Carole" back, and then glances around. "Is Noah in yet?"

When all Rachel gets is a delayed shrug in response, she has to remember to breathe because, if she's being honest with herself, Carole isn't doing anything terribly wrong and it really isn't like the poor woman is expected to know about the irksome manner in which Rachel's day has started out.

So Rachel breathes.

She breathes until Puck emerges from the bathroom, shoving his shirt down the front of his pants in an effort to tuck it in, but she notes the telltale wrinkles in its presentation and suddenly Carole's disheveled appearance is making a lot more sense.

Pairing an exasperated sigh with an overly-executed eye roll - she'd never been unable to comprehend exactly _why_ melodrama had gone out of style - Rachel just grabs his wrinkled shirt sleeve and drags him into his office, slamming the door altogether too forcefully behind them and sliding up to sit on his desk.

Puck's eyebrows raise and waggle when she locks it, too. "What, you finally decide to drop the vagitarian thing? Because I can totally hook you up with something kosher, babe."

Rachel's quiet then, and when her shoulders slump, he knows something's up.

His voice lowers, taking an almost softer tone. "You and Quinn fight again?"

Rachel just stares at the floor, and, deciding sensitivity obviously isn't working, Puck grins. "What do you say to a little get together at my place this weekend? Barbecue, no chicks... It'll be the shit."

Rachel laughs a little bit in spite of herself before kicking playfully at him. "_I'm_ a girl, you idiot!"

"Okay, okay. No _girlfriends_. How's that sound?"

"Well I'll have to check with Quinn first," Rachel murmurs, but Puck can still see the small smile on her face.

"You two must be on some killer cell phone plan, then, because I'm pretty sure you call that chick every time you want to do something. Do you have to ask her if you can scratch your own balls, too?"

Rachel wrinkles her nose and slips to the floor, pushing off the desk with a "you're disgusting," as she walks to the door. She throws him one last look over her shoulder, accompanied by a "and as I previously mentioned, I'm of the female variety. Don't make me tell you again!"

"Does that mean she's the dude?" Puck yells at her retreating back.

A muffled "you live with your mother!" reaches his ears before he hears Rachel's office door shut, and with an indignant huff, he knows he's lost.

"She's a nice lady," he mumbles under his breath.

* * *

Stiletto heels click curtly along the sidewalk, splashing in the occasional puddle as Quinn makes her way downtown, pulling the waterproof material tighter against her body. _This weather is really the cherry on top a shitty morning,_ she thinks. _The least this rain could do is do us all a favor and drown out that stupid mole._/p

She stops when she reaches an older building, though, and slips inside the revolving door after a glance at the people around her. Quinn barely has time to label them - tacky, tacky, _super_ tacky - before her feet have taken her to the elevator and the 15th floor.

Seeing Santana waiting for her, Quinn tries to look pleasant.

"Jesus, who pissed in your cornflakes this morning?"

Apparently, Quinn wasn't trying hard enough.

"Good morning to you too, Santana. Ladies," Quinn nods at a group of women passing by, clad in black suits, neatly pressed white oxfords, and crimson ties. They nod at her in response, and Santana offers them a pointed glare before they scurry away, leaving her and Quinn to sit around a conference table. Santana promptly puts her feet up, and Quinn decides reminding her she's wearing a skirt today isn't worth the fight.

"Your target's name is Kurt Hummel," Santana drawls, opening up a manilla file folder and messily lining up the slew of glossy photos inside it, "aka the Tank."

Quinn snorts. The kid is probably 20 years old and has what she thinks is the epitome of a babyface. He's anything but a tank.

"Yeah, I know, right?"

"The Tank?" Quinn splutters. Her morning's already starting to go better, thanks to Kurt Hummel. _Thanks to the Tank_, she corrects herself, and snorts again.

"Seriously though, Quinn," Santana's voice has taken on a more serious edge and Quinn finds herself preferring her belittling drawl, "we need this quick, clean, and contained."

Quinn nods.

"He's being moved across the border to a federal facility tomorrow, and it's the perfect time. It's the convoy's only point of vulnerability..."

Santana's still talking, but Quinn's managed to tune her out, already planning out intricately staged tactical maneuvers. "I want GPS and spec in the canyon," she interrupts, ignoring the sudden tightness in Santana's jaw as soon as the blonde cuts her off. Quinn pauses, then, as an afterthought: "and get me weather reports from the last three days." If she has to be near the border, she figures, she'd better get a tan.

* * *

Quinn is sunburt. She's lying on her stomach on a rotting wood floor, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, waiting for some skinny little punk ass kid, and she's_sunburnt_.

She supposes it could be worse.

She leans right to check a beat-up old laptop screen - "come on, Quinn, like you'd actually be allowed to take something _quality_ into the _desert_," Santana had sniffed - and just as she's turning back to face the horizon, a gust of hot wind picks up and she promptly receives an abundance of sand to her face.

Just as she's frantically rubbing at her eyes and thinking now it really _couldn't_ get any worse, there's a roaring sound and a deep red motorcycle comes roaring in from out of her left field of vision and three black Suburbans appear in the distance.

"Quinn," Santana's saying in her ear, "we're green. The perimeter is up and running."

Quinn groans. "Are you getting this, Santana?"

There's a snort.

"Santana!"

"What? You don't actually think it's a _threat,_ do you, Q?"

Quinn glances back down at the motorcycle, its helmet-clad rider attempting to do a jump off a nearby rock only to completely miss his landing, rolling off the seat into the sand.

Santana's laughing in her ear, but all Quinn's seeing is red as she goes to pull the plug on her laptop. "That idiot's going to blow the charges."

She's still watching out of the corner of her eye, though, as the rider gets up, and, seeming to spot the rock he tried to jump for the first time, run-run-leaps over to it, clambering to the top of it and striking a pose. Quinn have expects him to proclaim he's king of the world, muttering "civilians" under her breath, when he slides his backpack off his back , letting it fall to the ground in front of him, and oh my God, he's pulling out a gun.

"Quinn?" Santana's not laughing anymore. "Any particular reason we're getting a weapons signature?"

"Shit!" is the the hissed response she gets. "Not a civilian!" Pushing her beat-up mirrored aviators up onto the bridge of her nose, she grabs her KTR-03S and takes aim, smirking when she hits the guy square in the chest. "Asshole."

Just as her target tumbles off the rock and to the ground, Santana's in her ear again. "Convoy's in the zone, Quinn, countdown is initiated..."

* * *

Rachel groans, sitting up and pulling a silver bullet out of her vest, scowling at the hole it's made in her new leather jacket. She'd got it specifically for today, and someone had just shot her- Someone had just shot her!

Brows furrowed as far as they could go and lips in a tight line, Rachel turns to face the tin shack from whence the shots came, hand thrust in her pocket. She smirks then, pulling out a grenade and yanking the pin out, glaring at the tin shed - in lieu of her unseen opponent - and expertly chucking the explosive.

The building erupts into flames, but Rachel scowls when she sees a motorbike - identical to her own, save for dark blue coloring - speeding away from the dilapidated shack.

_At least my newfound rival has impeccable taste,_ Rachel thinks, and she's turning to leave when she notices a semi-charred laptop among the ruins.

* * *

"I think I got ID'd on that hit," Rachel's mumbling around her mixed field greens, tracing stars in the condensation of her water glass. "Have you ever been ID'd on a hit?"

Puck shrugs, shoveling mashed potatoes into his mouth.

"Right." Rachel's quiet for a moment, then "I think I'm in trouble."

"You get a look at the dude?"

"Based on the short time he was within my range of vision, I'd speculate about 110. 115 tops," she adds as an afterthought. After all, she though, under absolutely no conditions should a potential rival weigh less than her.

Puck's mouth is so full of food, Rachel's surprised he can even speak, let alone her understand him. "Maybe dude's a midget."

"I'm not sure," Rachel turns to him after a moment of consideration, "it was a him."

Puck's fork stops and he lowers it back to his plate. "Are you saying," he says, turning to face her, "you got your ass kicked by some _chick_?"

Rachel rolls her eyes, ready to retort that, _in case you'd forgotten, _Noah_, she was a girl too,_ but is interrupted when Puck opens his mouth again, eyes this time on their waitress.

"You two want any dessert?"

"Well," Noah draws out, "What do you have today, babe?"

"Ice cream," she says, obviously unaffected by Noah's advances.

"Well that sounds delicious," Puck's grin is widening as he leans forward, "what kind of flavors do you have?"

"Chocolate and vanilla."

"I don't think I want either of those," he sighs, letting a finger run lightly down the waitress's arm, "not separately, anyway..."

Rachel sees exactly what her friend is doing, and rolls her eyes.

"...but maybe mixed together they could be pretty awesome, right? And I'm not talking about some little spoon," he winks, "I want the whole sundae."

Rachel sees the crack in the woman's demeanor coming a mile away. "That could be arranged."

"Why thank you," Puck leers, and there's a pause while he's reading her name tag, "Mercedes."

She gives him a small smile before making her way back to the kitchen.

"You hear that?" Puck's turned back to Rachel now, running a hand through his mohawk. "_It could be arranged_. I'd like to have her kick my ass if you know what I mean."

Rachel snorts, but her attention is only half focused on her friend, having gone from tracing stars to nondescript shapes as she stares off into the space behind Puck's head.

"You know anything beside her weight class?" When he doesn't get a response, Puck flicks her temple. "You know, it makes it pretty hard for me to talk to you when you're in your crazy zone like that."

"Laptop."

"Huh?"

"Laptop."

"Rachel, I don't know what-"

"_Laptop_."

Puck throws his hands up in the air in defeat. "Alright, laptop."

* * *

Quinn's scowling as she storms into Santana's office, a scared-looking blonde following behind her, scissors and suturing wire in one hand, the other trying fruitlessly to secure a band-aid on Quinn's left shoulder.

"Quinn," another girl appears behind them.

"Get me that tape," Quinn's growling at Santana, who rolls her eyes and calls Quinn what sounds like "sore loser," but turns to her computer anyway.

"Quinn," the girl tries again, a little louder this time.

"What?" The blonde whirls around, whipping the girl behind her with her, scissors clattering to the floor and bandage ripping off of Quinn's back.

The girl blinks and meekly holds out a phone. "It's her."

Quinn cringes and takes the phone, tone softening. "The FBI secured the package. The window's closed."

"The voice on the other end of the phone sighs, "I thought you understood we couldn't afford any mistakes on this one."

"There was another player," Quinn growls.

The woman on the other line clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "Q, Q, Q. We do not leave witnesses."

The two other girls are watching quietly, while Santana crosses her arms and purses her lips.

"If this player ID'd you, you know you have 48 hours to clear the scene, Quinn."

Santana's watching Quinn a little more closely now.

"Looking forward to it, ma'am." Quinn claps the phone shut and all but throws it at the girl who'd brought it to her, shoving past her coworkers to look at Santana's computer. "Alright, ladies. We have a new target. Let's just find out who he is."

* * *

Rachel was uncomfortable.

She was clearly in the wrong place.

She remembers earlier that day, as she'd sat in Puck's garage, hunched over and sifting through the fried shell of what had once been a laptop, simultaneously lamenting her perfect posture, when she'd thought of her: Quinn's friend. The angry one. Rachel had never been her - oh, what was her name again? Samantha? Satan? Rachel hadn't felt a need to correct herself after arriving at that conclusion - biggest fan, partially because she had never Rachel's biggest fan, but Rachel_had_ remembered her talking about having some tech-savvy friend on one occasion. On multiple occasions, actually.

But here's Rachel, sitting here in this room, Zac Efron poster on the wall to her left - and really, that's _hardly_ professional - and there's this... Blonde, who looks like she'd be better off touring with Beyoncé or in a squad of Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, staring placidly at her from across a table.

"Um," Rachel begins, but the blonde holds up a finger, and for some reason, Rachel finds herself actually closing her mouth.

"You weren't using this right."

Rachel stares down at the burnt laptop between them, then back up at the woman across from her, whose blue eyes are all but boring a hole into her head.

The blonde cocks her head a little bit, still staring serenely at Rachel, as if waiting for an answer.

Rachel supposes she should have _known_ not to trust Satan. Snatching the laptop up from the table, she rises to her feet with a brisk, "well, thank you for your time, Ms. Pierce, but I'm afraid-"

The blonde's shaking her head now, and lighting a hand on Rachel's arm, and again, Rachel feels strangely compelled to do what she says - or rather, compelled not to upset her - and she sits, letting the woman across from her ease the laptop out of her grasp.

"Don't call me that."

Rachel blinks. "What?"

"I would appreciate it if you didn't call me that. It reminds me of the years I thought I was really bad at golf-"

It takes Rachel so long to figure out she's trying to say "the years I thought I was subpar" that she misses the rest of the woman's sentence. "I'm sorry, I beg your pardon?"

She's met with an extended hand and a grin. "Call me Brittany."

Rachel doesn't have the heart to tell Brittany they've _already_ shaken hands, and Brittany had been the one to introduce herself as Ms. Pierce, so she just gives her a show smile and shakes.

"Now," Brittany says, pulling her hand out of Rachel's, "you weren't using this right."

Rachel sighs. "Well no, but it's not mine-"

"Rachel," and Brittany's actually shaking her head at Rachel, the irony of which does not go unnoticed by the latter, "it's a _laptop_. It's supposed to sit on _top_ of your _lap_."

Rachel closes her eyes and breathes. She's going to _kill_ Satan.

"Now, you said it wasn't your laptop, though, so let's find out whose it was so we can return it."

Rachel's eyes flutter open and she blinks and are her eyes deceiving her now because Brittany definitely has the laptop under a magnifying glass and she's using these bizarre little tweezers to pull what Rachel's going to assume is the computer chip out, and now Brittany's plugging it into her _own_ laptop and this has to be some practical joke and now she's _really_ going to kill that awful Satan woman, but Brittany's still talking.

"I can find you a billing address," she's saying - and with a murmured "though addresses aren't ducks so I never understood why they have bills" - adds, "that way you can go tell its owner that it if they kept it on their lap, it probably wouldn't explode."

Rachel's so disturbed by this point she has to distract herself as Brittany's laptop whirrs beside her, so she looks at the stickers on the back.

Emblazoned on a sticker across the center, in white letters on a bright red background, are the words "everybody loves a Latin girl."

"Brittany, of what does your heritage consist?"

Brittany doesn't even look up from her laptop. "It's my girlfriend's."

And suddenly just _how much_ Samantha or Satan or whatever her name is talks about Brittany makes sense.

Rachel's quickly jerked away from her realization by a loud squeal. "It's Santana's office!"

_Santana!_ Rachel thinks, _That's her-_ But then Rachel stops as Brittany gushes "suite 1506a!" because Quinn and Santana have worked in the same firm together for years.

* * *

Quinn's standing and watching the same video for the sixteenth time that day, and when one of the two girls seated in front of her yawns, she puts a hand on either of their shoulders. "Go grab a latte, ladies," she murmurs.

* * *

Rachel steps out of the revolving door and into the lobby of an older building downtown - and ooh, that woman's wearing a _lovely_ blouse - and, spying a directory up on the wall across from her, makes her way over to it.

* * *

If Quinn has to watch this idiot do bad ballet across the desert one more time, she's going to scream. _One more time, though,_ she promises herself begrudgingly, but just as the figure takes up his pose on the rock, his back to the camera, Quinn's eyes widen and she hastens to zoom in.

* * *

Her finger's leaving prints as it runs down the glass covering the directory, but it's the last thing on Rachel's mind as she scours the list, stumbling backwards a little and mouth falling open as she reaches 1506: Sylvester and Sons Law Firm.

_1506a: Quinn Fabray, Partner._

* * *

Santana strolls in, sipping idly on the Diet Coke in one hand, holding a phone in the other, and stops just behind Quinn when she sees what the other girl is staring at on the screen in front of them. "Pretty sure the point was to figure out whose ass it was and annihilate it, Quinn, not ogle it."

It takes Quinn a moment to tear her eyes away from the screen and turn in her chair to face the Santana. "What do you want now?"

Santana holds up the phone with an bored expression. "It's Rachel. She wants to know what time _supper_ is. Her word, not mine," she adds with an eyeroll.

Quinn's back to staring at the screen again. "Tell her..." She bites her lip, then, setting her jaw, "tell her dinner's at seven. Oh, and Santana?"

She's met with a loud slurping sound as Santana sucks on her straw.

"Tighten up your tie before you go back to work."

Santana grinds her teeth and turns to walk away, but still tightens her tie as she puts the phone back to her ear. "She says dinner's at seven."

* * *

Still staring at the directory in front of her, Rachel shakes her head. "It always is."


End file.
